Sometimes life needs a proper plan,
a list of jobs and a capable man.
Sometimes the list can stay where it sits,
while I take one breath and just say…
Fuck it.
My brain’s got nine hundred tabs on loud,
three play music and one draws a crowd.
One’s replaying mistakes from 2008,
like it’s breaking news and it just can’t wait.
I should probably sleep, I should probably eat,
reply to messages, get off this seat.
But I’ve reheated the same cold brew three times,
then lost my phone while writing these lines.
Fuck it.
It is what it is.
My heart’s got genes nobody explained,
years rolled past while the truth stayed chained.
The NHS wrote when the damage was done,
then said, “Try not to stress” which was fucking fun.
Can’t have the meds that might calm my head,
because my heart could kick off instead.
So one half races, one shuts up shop,
and I’m in the middle begging both to stop.
Neither one listens, not one little bit,
so I shrug my shoulders and just say…
Fuck it.
The gym keeps calling, life keeps stalling,
my dumbbells stare like they find it appalling.
I promise tomorrow I’ll give it a crack,
tomorrow says, “Mate, don’t drag me into that”
The washing has formed its own little state,
the dishes are breeding, I’m already too late.
There’s one clean spoon underneath all the lot,
but I’m not digging for it. I’ll eat from the pot.
Fuck it.
It is what it is.
I’ve lost people, lost sleep, lost patience as well,
some days my own head is a personal hell.
I’ve smiled through grief and joked through the pain,
then wondered why I’m knackered and doing it again.
I turn the worst days into poems that rhyme,
then stick drums underneath them and call it a good time.
Because apparently pain sounds better with grit,
a Northern voice, bass and a little more shit.
Social media’s full of people who know
how I should live from a ten second show.
They’ve got fake little profiles and plenty of lip,
plus a degree in talking absolute shit.
So I block, delete and put down my phone,
let them keep arguing all on their own.
You can’t fight every knobhead throwing a fit,
sometimes you breathe and just say…
Fuck it.
Not giving up, not falling apart,
just saving my strength for the things with a heart.
Not waving some miserable, sad little flag,
just choosing which crap can stay in the bag.
Because life’s too short to chase being right,
to fix every problem or win every fight.
Some days you face it and give it your best,
some days the bravest thing is having a rest.
So make a brew, stroke both of the dogs,
ignore all the messages, people and jobs.
Sit back like you’ve cracked every mystery there is,
and calmly say…
Fuck it.
It is what it is.